


I Heard You

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Don't copy to another site, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: Sherlock is back in London after his two years away. His best friend, John Watson, is getting married to Mary and is no longer living at Baker Street.Sherlock makes an impulsive decision that changes the future of all three of them.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 105
Kudos: 176
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, HolmesCon Writers Collection, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consultingbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingbatch/gifts), [StrangersmilesStrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangersmilesStrange/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Я слышал тебя (I Heard You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951027) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



The proposal never did quite happen.

After Sherlock’s re-emergence at The Landmark, John quite frankly had other things to think about. For all he knew the ring that cost two week’s wages was still sitting on their abandoned table in the restaurant.

That night the conversations with Mary had centred on the return of the great detective: John vowing to never speak to his former best friend again, whereas Mary was being surprisingly supportive of the man she’d never known – even daring to say that she _liked_ him. John’s aborted proposal was all but forgotten.

John’s resolve hadn’t lasted long, of course, and the next evening after work he had headed to Baker Street determined to talk through his feelings (he shudders at the thought).

Thanks to an attack on the pavement and a smokey wake up in a bonfire, John had never made it into 221B that night, but he _had_ seen Sherlock as he was holding his face in his gloved hands, eyes filled with terror and panic. By the time he got back to his flat with Mary all he wanted to do was shower off the smell of burning and get some sleep, so he can be forgiven for not noticing something that had clearly happened the night before: Mary was wearing the engagement ring.

When he spots it over breakfast the next morning, he’s unreasonably furious. Despite the fact that he’d obviously planned to propose to her, he finds himself annoyed to see the ring sitting plainly on her finger, as if the question had gone ahead uninterrupted. When he tries to bring it up with her she’s understandably hurt, thinking he no longer wants to marry her, and he doesn’t have the strength to talk it through with her. He needs to see Sherlock, to thank him for saving his life again, and to finally listen to what he has to say. _That_ is his priority now.

Of course, nothing is ever that simple with them, and before he knows it they are in the centre of a case again. There’s the tube car, the trick, the forgiveness, and after the dust has settled and their statements given, there’s a take-away on the sofa at 221B, and a conversation that is stilted and emotional for both of them.

Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, Mycroft has (kindly) announced to the press that Sherlock will make a statement regarding his return, outside of his flat in Baker Street the following afternoon. He immediately asks John to face them with him; to stand by his side the way he should have been for the last two years.

Mrs. Hudson calls that nice young man, Gregory, and the lovely Molly, and starts flitting about the flat talking of champagne and a welcome home party. Sherlock doesn’t have the heart to upset her so he reluctantly agrees.

John and Mary are the last to arrive, and despite the others having already toasted Sherlock’s return, Mary announces their engagement as soon as they walk in. The news is like a spear to Sherlock’s heart, yet through the pain he makes the celebration all about them, pouring more champagne and toasting the happy couple. He’s dying on the inside, and he knows that John can see it when his friend makes a point of telling him that he never actually proposed to Mary, that she plucked the ring from his pocket and started wearing it. Interesting, Sherlock thinks. Why tell him this? Surely he was planning to propose anyway so it makes no difference how it eventually happened. At least the information gives Sherlock something to deduce.

Sherlock doesn’t want to answer the questions from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, about why he was away and how he faked his death, not until he has a chance to properly speak to John, so Mary easily manages to steer the conversation to wedding talk. Before long, though, faking happiness starts to prove too much for him and he disappears to his bedroom to get some quiet and to prepare himself for his statement. After some calming breaths, he’s looking himself over in the mirror, perfecting his curls, and straightening his suit, when he hears John call him from the kitchen. Turning to see his blogger walking down the hallway towards the bedroom, smiling the relaxed, happy smile that Sherlock has been dreaming about for the past two years, he imagines his friend walking down the aisle, where _he_ is standing waiting for him, not Mary. That momentary thought is enough to brighten his mood and he smiles back, warmly, openly, in a way he would never smile consider smiling at anyone else.

'Come on, you’ll have to go down. They want the story.' John reminds him that the press are waiting at the door downstairs.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock walks past him, ‘In a minute.’

They return to the living room where the wedding talk is still in full swing; the ladies squashed together on the sofa talking about the colours and the flowers, and Lestrade is sitting in the chair by their side, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Sherlock picks up another bottle from the coffee table, popping the cork and filling Greg’s glass, earning him a grateful smile. Sherlock tunes into Mrs. Hudson’s excited twittering.

'Oh, I’m really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?’

Mary looks at John out of the corner of her eye, knowing full well they hadn’t begun to discuss it. ‘We thought May.’

'Oh! Spring wedding!’ Mrs. Hudson and Molly exclaim in unison.

'Yeah. Well, once we’ve actually got engaged.’ She looks pointedly at Sherlock, but there’s fondness beneath it. ‘We were interrupted last time.’ Her tone has a smugness which Sherlock immediately dislikes.

'Yeah’, John agrees, but he’s looking at Mary not Sherlock, and there’s no fondness in _that_ gaze, the resentment over the forced engagement still on the surface.  
  
There’s an awkward silence in the room as the other guests pick up on the tension. John takes a big gulp of his drink before grabbing his coat from the hook. ‘Ready?’

Sherlock nods, swirling his coat behind him as he slips it on (John can never understand why he has to get dressed in such a dramatic fashion) and looping his scarf around his neck as he heads down the stairs.

'Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.’ John says as he follows behind him.

'Hmm?’ Sherlock carries on down the stairs, not turning around.

'Being back. Being a hero again.’

'Oh, don’t be stupid.’

John stops at the midway point of the staircase. ‘You’d have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it.’

'Love what?’ Sherlock, two steps below, turns to face him. He's always liked it when John towers over him like this.

'Being Sherlock Holmes.’

'I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.’ He continues down, putting on his gloves as he approaches the front door.

John follows but stops again on the bottom step. ‘Sherlock, you _are_ gonna tell me how you did it? How you jumped off that building and survived?’

'You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible.’

'No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave.’

'I should hope so.’ He turns drags his eyes away from the safety of the door in front of him and looks at his friend. Into the eyes of the man he destroyed when he died.

John slowly moves towards him leaving Sherlock with nowhere to go. ‘I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you.’

'I know. I was there.’ He swallows down a lump of regret and longing.

John is now standing directly opposite him in the narrow space behind the front door. He’s so close he can feel Sherlock’s breath in his hair. ‘I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.’

The space between them is infinitesimal. Sherlock removes the glove he has just pulled on and lifts a large hand up to the side of John’s face, resting it against his cheek, cupping his face delicately. John’s breath hitches at the contact and he subconsciously licks his lips; the deep dark hidden part of his mind knowing exactly what he wants to happen, while the conscious side is fighting against the urge to open the door and run. He feels, rather than hears, Sherlock’s next words:-

'I heard you.’

Sherlock closes the last remaining distance between them and presses his plump lips against John’s dry mouth: a firm pressure giving the impression of a confidence he doesn’t feel. It’s not romantic, or sexual in any way, no more than a chaste touch of lips, but to Sherlock it’s everything and all he can think of is that John hasn’t pulled away. In fact, he’s _pushing back_. It’s light, barely there really, but it _is_ there, and when John starts to suck on Sherlock’s bottom lip, it’s Sherlock that draws away and _that’s_ when John reacts, looking as though he’s been slapped – face red with either embarrassment or anger, though his pupils are dilated so maybe it’s arousal. Sherlock flicks his eyes down John’s body to look for… other signs.

‘What the hell was _that,_ Sherlock _?’_ He hisses. ‘My _fiancée_ is upstairs!’

'Oh, _please’,_ Sherlock replies, haughtily, attempting to disguise his nervousness. ‘You hadn’t proposed. You _weren’t going to_ propose. You changed your mind the minute I came back.’

John opens his mouth to retort but his friend cuts him off.

'John, this isn’t the time.’ He says, and John knows he’s right, though it seems they had all the time in the world to kiss. Sherlock picks up the deerstalker from the coat rack next to him, pulling it roughly down onto his curls. ‘Time to go be Sherlock Holmes.’

He throws open the door and strides out to face the press, John, as always, following dutifully behind him.

**

After another glass of champagne, Greg Lestrade is starting to enjoy the infectious laughter from the three women on the sofa. Mary seems to get on well with Molly and Mrs. Hudson and she has a sharp sense of humour that Greg appreciates, and a keen intelligence that reminds him of Sherlock.

She’s regaling the group with stories about what a wonderful partner John is and how he’ll be the perfect husband. ‘Honestly, you have no idea how lucky I am, he’s perfect’, she tells them.

'Oh we do, Mary. Sherlock has been saying things like this for years!’ Molly giggles, stopping abruptly when she sees Mary’s face cloud over and her smiling mouth become a hard line. She takes another sip of her drink to stop herself from making any more embarrassing comments.

‘You’re lovely Mary, you’ll make a wonderful wife, but you know… I hadn’t seen John in nearly two years, and when he came here to tell me he was marrying a _woman…_ well. I was surprised.’

Greg snorts a laugh at Mrs. Hudson’s comment, imagining John’s response if he’d heard. Molly looks mortified but the elderly lady continues to smile and joke about his relationship with Sherlock, completely oblivious to the change in the atmosphere – or simply not caring.

Mary does her best to fake a smile, and laughs, ‘You know they were never –’

They front door slamming halts the conversation, and suddenly there is six-feet of pissed off consulting detective barging into the room, hair in disarray from the hat he has ripped off and thrown down in the hallway. John rushes in behind him, looking equally annoyed but trying not to show it in front of his friends. He’s uncomfortable too. Something about the press conference has upset them both, cutting the interview short after only ten minutes. Mary may not be a genius detective but even she can deduce that the press must have questioned the nature of John’s relationship with Sherlock. The two of them are like an open book.

‘Party’s over’, Sherlock announces, flopping dramatically into his chair, slouching down with his legs stretched out in front of him, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

‘ _Sherlock!_ There’s no need to be rude to your guests,’ Mrs Hudson admonishes.

‘It’s alright, Mrs Hudson, I’ve got to get going anyway.’ Greg puts his glass down, putting on his jacket, followed quietly by Molly, who hasn’t spoken a word since putting her foot in it with Mary.

‘I’m sorry about him. The press got a bit… much.’ John apologises as his friends congratulate him again on his engagement and leave the flat together.

Mary gets up, putting her hand on John’s arm and giving him a look that says _“It’s Sherlock”,_ as if she knows him better than John, and that gets on John’s nerves more than it should. 'Come on, John. Let's leave him in peace.'

‘Actually, Mary, I’m going to stay for a bit. We’ve… er… got a lot to catch up on.’

Mary looks put out and glances at Sherlock who gives a small smirk. ‘It doesn’t look like he’s up for talking with you, John.’

‘He’ll talk. He owes me an explanation.’ Whether John is talking about the last two years or the kiss in the hallway, Sherlock isn’t sure.

Mrs Hudson ushers Mary downstairs, much to Mary’s annoyance – she clearly wanted to argue more and doesn’t want to leave without her fiancé. Mrs H looks back and winks at John, closing the door behind her.

‘I know you’re not really in your mind palace, Sherlock. Don’t you think we should talk?’

Sherlock stays quiet – he’s really not giving John much to work with, so he does what he always does in a crisis: puts the kettle on. His mind is racing through the events of the last hour. His feelings for Sherlock have always been complicated and have been stirred up again since his return from the dead, though he had no idea that Sherlock’s feelings for him had been just as confusing. If Sherlock had made a move before he had jumped then John wouldn’t have hesitated (well, not much passed a token _“I’m not gay”)._

But now… There was very little trust left between them, and then there was Mary. Kind, funny, sweet Mary, who had saved him when Sherlock had died. He’s not a cheat, never has been, but he leaned into that kiss and who knows how far it would have gone if Sherlock hadn’t pulled away. They need to talk, but he honestly has no idea where he wants the conversation to go. Maybe it was just an experiment for Sherlock, trying to see if he could get John to walk away from a fiancée for him, just like he’d walked away from all of his girlfriends (or at least pushed them so far away that they dumped him).

John places a cup on Sherlock’s side table, lightly touching his shoulder to attract his attention before settling into his own disused and dusty chair, and taking a long sip of his tea.

‘Sherlock? We really need to talk.’

Sherlock sighs, but still doesn’t look at him. ‘Nothing to talk about, I made a mistake. Won’t happen again.’

John says nothing, though his mouth is opening and closing like a fish as he tries to think of the right words; words that won’t hurt the man he cares about so deeply. Sherlock speaks again, sensing John’s difficulty.

‘You’re clearly still so far in the closet that you can’t accept what’s right in front of you.’

‘Hey, hang on a minute.’

‘No.’ Sherlock opens his eyes, staring John down. ‘You kissed back. For a moment you forgot that Mary even existed and you _kissed me back.’_

‘I… I did – yeah.’

Sherlock raises his eyebrow in challenge, but behind the confident facade the mind palace version of himself is pale and trembling, his hands sweating, and he’s possibly more afraid than he’s ever been in his life. In all honesty he’s terrified that John will walk away and never come back. What on Earth was he thinking? John is getting married, he’s happy, and Sherlock could have stayed in his life as his best friend, they could still have solved cases together… But he ruined it all in a moment of weakness. _Timing, Sherlock,_ his inner Mycroft says to him, an expression of abject disappointment on his imagined face.

‘Why did you do it, Sherlock? I need to know why you did it.’

‘I should think that was _fairly_ obvious.’

‘No, that’s the point, it really isn’t.’

‘I knew you were bisexual when I first met you, just as I knew that you’d never act on it. You were attracted to me and clearly interested in taking things further but at the time it wasn’t what I thought I wanted. That, and I assumed that you would probably panic if I took you up on it. Quite correctly I might add.’ He smirks, pleased with himself when he sees the heat flush John's cheeks.

‘I realised I’d made a mistake when I deduced you had shot the cabby for me, but by then I’d already given you the _“_ _flattered by your interest_ _”_ speech.’ He grimaces at the memory. ‘I didn’t quite know how to take it back.’ He admits, ashamed. ‘Besides, you were shaping up to be an asset to the work and you seemed like you would be a tolerable flatmate, so…’

‘That long? You’ve been interested for _that long?_ Christ. After you shot me down I gave up hope, assumed you were asexual and did my best to get over my attraction. But instead I…’

‘What?’ Sherlock demands.

‘I fell in love with you. Damn it.’ He wipes a tear that has escaped from his left eye. ‘If I’d known how you felt before you… We could have… _Christ,_ Sherlock, you said you were married to your work!’

‘Yes… and then you became part of my work.’ He gives John a long look, loaded with meaning.

John realises what Sherlock is trying to say, ‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit, _shit!_ I can’t do this.’ He picks up his jacket from the hook on the back of the door and gives one last look at his best friend who is sitting in his chair and looking as if his world just ended. ‘I’m sorry.’ John jogs down the stairs and out onto the street without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

John slams the front door to 221, rushing out into the pouring rain whilst still fighting a war with his coat sleeves. He’s hot and dizzy, and the cold rain feels quite pleasant on his sweating skin. It’s like an out-of-body experience, he’s not sure if he can still feel his feet or even his legs, but somehow he doesn’t stop striding until he’s a safe distance away from the flat – from Sherlock. He’s crossed Clarence Bridge into Regent’s Park and slows his steps as he enters “Holme Green” and the irony of the name is not lost on him. Despite the rain, John sinks to the ground by the lake, disturbing a bevy of swans huddling together against the bank.

He takes a deep breath in, cognisant of the fact he’s on the borderline of a panic attack. What the hell had Sherlock been playing at? Was it some kind of game? Sherlock has never paid much attention to socially acceptable behaviour, but even he must realise that kissing his best friend, who had just got engage to someone else, was more than a bit not good. How the hell were they ever going to get passed this? He was planning to ask Sherlock to be his best man! Christ, that would have been a disaster.

In the privacy of his own mind John can’t deny he had always wanted this, Sherlock was right on that account. He shouldn’t be at all surprised that Sherlock had seen his bisexuality from the very beginning, despite the fact that John had never put a label on it himself. Sherlock must have known that too, as he was uncharacteristically decent about not mentioning it.

John thinks of Mary, waiting for him back at her – their – flat. He loves her, he truly does, but he’d be lying if he said it was anything more than a mere flicker of the passion he felt (feels) for Sherlock. He’d thought she was perfect for him, for the life he _thought_ he wanted, and she really has been his saviour over the last six months, but in the last few minutes, since Sherlock Holmes bloody _kissed_ him, he had suddenly realised so many little things about her that didn’t sit right with him. The subtle little digs she’d been aiming at Sherlock, and John’s friendship/working relationship with him. Were they really there, or was John trying to justify the thoughts going through his mind? The thoughts about packing his bag and returning to Baker Street where they would no longer require two bedrooms.

One thing he is sure of: he can’t marry Mary. He can’t commit himself to someone when his heart already belongs to his best friend. He can’t go through every day being married to one person while loving someone else, and he knows he’ll never be able to stop loving Sherlock.

When his breathing has calmed enough, and the rain has started to subside, John picks himself off the floor, grimacing at the wet patch on his behind, and ambles off in the direction of the Japanese Garden. He often finds himself in the tranquil garden after an argument with Sherlock – it’s calming serenity works wonders on his stress levels and the sound of the waterfall always helps to clear his mind.

Due to the inclement weather – and the early evening hour – the garden is empty, and John finds he can walk around in complete solitude (aside from the occasional waterlogged peacock, ruffling it’s feathers). As the garden has no benches the visitors usually keep a constant movement through, but John is alone so he spreads his jacket out on the decking above the koi pond, sitting himself down on the dry lining with his legs dangling over the edge. Thanks to the peace and quiet, it’s easy to lose himself in his mind, eyes lazily tracking the movements of the fish below the murky water.

He has a lot of thinking to do.

**

Sherlock stares at the door blankly after John rushes down the stairs. He knows he’s not the most perceptive man when it comes to emotions, but where did he do wrong? He deduced John would likely storm out when Sherlock first aired the truth about his sexuality, but the doctor had taken that rather well (barely raised an eyebrow, in fact). Somehow it was John’s own confession of his love for Sherlock that seemed too much for him to cope with. Interesting.

Sherlock ponders over this for a long while, absentmindedly adding three nicotine patches to his arm. His heart and his mind are at odds with each other, which is a feeling he isn’t used to at all; while his heart is singing at John’s love confession (take that, Mary), his traitorous mind is terrified that John still _(st_ _ill!_ _)_ isn’t ready to accept Sherlock’s feelings for him. Maybe those two years apart have made it impossible for them to move forward. He’s truly the idiot that Mycroft always insists he is. He shouldn’t have kissed John, shouldn’t have pushed him to confront something he never wanted to confront. He has Mary now (damn you, Mary), he’s moved on, and maybe Sherlock has just ruined any progress they may have made towards restoring their old friendship.

Sherlock slips into his mind palace to play over the events of the evening, his fingers stimming nervously against the arms of his chair. No, he decides, he did the right thing. Without that kiss they would have ignored their feelings for each other forever, and Sherlock really couldn’t have handled a continuation of the tension that was between them in the weeks leading up to the fall; the constant limbo had only been bearable because he had not yet known what it would feel like to be entirely without John. If their feelings and attraction were ultimately to lead nowhere, he _needs_ to know that now, once and for all, before he has the dubious honour of being John’s best man (of course John would ask him, who else was there?). It would be like watching his own autopsy happen in front of him: his heart expertly carved out of his chest, weighed and measured before the guests.

Sighing, he opens his eyes and takes his phone from his inside jacket pocket, planning to send a quick message to John to test the waters.

He stills. Thumbs hovering uselessly over the screen.

What was it that John always used to say to him? He “ _needed some air”_ and Sherlock should “ _bloody well give him space”._ It seems he does listen occasionally. Placing the phone on the arm of the chair, where he can easily see it if John contacts him, he resolves to let John make the first move.

His immediate problem is how to stop himself shooting the walls in sheer frustration, or microwaving his phone to counteract his inevitable inability to leave John in peace. Truly, he could never be without his beloved iPhone, and his landlady (not housekeeper) has already complained about the living room wall resembling Swiss cheese. She would be livid if he reached for the gun again.

So, a distraction…

Drugs are, of course, out of the question, and he’s trying not to smoke so John can’t complain that he _“stinks like an ashtray”._ He’s not yet quite desperate enough to call Mycroft and face his derision.

Oh well.

He launches himself out of his chair.

Needs must.

‘ _Mrs. Hudson?!’_


	3. Chapter 3

John has been sitting on the bench in an almost Sherlockian trance for long enough for him to start to shiver – despite the mild summer evening – thanks to his still soaking wet clothes. When he pulls out his phone he realises he’s been sitting there for nearly two hours. He also notices there are no texts from Sherlock, which is unexpected, he would have thought there would have been demands for his presence, at the very least.

Mary, however, has contacted him every thirty minutes since the last message he’d read, almost like she’d set a reminder to do so. Putting the phone down on the bench beside him he rests his head in his hands wearily, and takes a moment to feel sorry for himself. He laughs humourlessly: shouldn’t it be a good thing to have two people in love with you? Sighing like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he picks up the phone again and fires off a quick text -

[Sent 21:06]

_I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon._

\- to Sherlock. _Damn it!_ That had been meant for Mary. Obviously it had. _That_ was home now, his life in the suburbs with Mary, not Baker Street, not Sherlock. Yet the message makes perfect sense for Sherlock too; I’m sorry I stormed out, I’m coming back. And part of John is too weary to even attempt to pretend he didn’t mean for that to happen. Maybe he just wanted plausible deniability.

**

The text came through during Sherlock’s fourth game of bridge with Mrs. Hudson. He’d lost the first three (she cheated, obviously) so anything that interrupted her unsportsmanlike cackling would have been welcome, even if it was Mycroft. Yet, Sherlock is undeniably grateful that the name on the screen is _John._ Mrs. Hudson quickly forgotten, he dumps his cards on the table in favour of checking his message.

[Received 21:06]

_I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon._

Home! He said home! Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat ( _not biologically possible_ ) for nine-tenths of a second before the truth dawns on him: this message wasn’t meant for him. John is going home to Mary. Sherlock deflates as his heart now appears to stop beating entirely ( _unlikely, he’s still standing upright and Mrs. Hudson hasn’t screamed)._ Refusing to give up what he wants without a fight, Sherlock texts back:

[Sent 21:08]

_Good. We’re out of milk, you’ll need some for your tea in the morning._

He imagines John smiling at that, he won’t be able to help himself.

‘Sherlock, what is it?’ Mrs. Hudson inquires.

‘Nothing, Hudders.’ He moves to leave the kitchen and return upstairs, but he stops when he imagines John saying _“_ _M_ _anners, Sherlock”._ ‘Thank you for the distraction’, he throws over his shoulder, making his landlady smile warmly.

**

John was torn between walking back to Baker Street or getting a cab to the house in Northwood. He hadn’t sent a follow up to Sherlock, hadn’t told him that the message wasn’t meant for him (because it was, in all honesty, wasn’t it?), and Sherlock had, of course, answered as if everything was normal. They needed to talk. _Really_ talk. And maybe that would be easier to do if they weren’t face to face. He’s now walked back to the main road where he can easily hail a taxi, yet he doesn’t raise his arm, he replies to his friend’s text instead.

[Sent 21:11]

_Right, milk. Got it._

He has to smile at Sherlock’s usual demand for milk, as if nothing momentous had happened just a few short hours ago. Regardless of whatever Sherlock is going through, at one time or another, his obsession with tea will never change. Neither will his apparent inability to buy the milk. John starts to put his phone back in his jacket pocket, thinks better of it, and sends another message.

[Sent 21:12]

_Sherlock, we need to talk._

As expected, Sherlock responds in a fraction of a second, as though he had the message already prepared to send. He probably did.

[Received 21:12]

_Pointless, I already know what you’re going to say, and what my response will be. Let’s save time and not bother._

[Sent 21:13]

_No, you don’t know, Sherlock. So I’m going to talk anyway, and you’re going to read it._

He doesn’t give Sherlock time to respond before following up.

[Sent 21:13]

_Why now? Why kiss me now when, for the first time, I’m actually unavailable._

[Received 21:15]

_Maybe because you’re unavailable._

John huffs in annoyance. Well, that’s clear as mud. He doesn’t know why he expected anything else from his enigmatic flatmate. Ex. Ex-flatmate!

[Sent 21:16]

_What?_

[Received 21:16]

_*Sigh*_

[Sent 21:17]

_You’re texting your sighs now?_

[Received 21:20]

_How else would you hear them? Should I send a video?_

John laughs despite himself. Most people might consider that sarcasm, but John knows Sherlock is completely serious. _  
_

[Sent 21:21]

_Sherlock._

[Received 21:23]

_Fine. Maybe because I realised that you would soon be gone for good. Maybe because I spent two years saving your life and fighting to come back to you, to the life we had before, only to find it slipping away._

Christ. John bites down on his lip as he feels his eyes start to sting and his vision begin to blur. He doesn’t cry in public, damn it, he _doesn’t –_ and two sentences of a text message shouldn’t be able to make him cry at all _–_ yet a single droplet has already escaped, trailed down his cheek, and dripped down onto the screen of his phone. He swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, frustrated at the ease at which he succumbed to emotion. For a long moment he pictures his fiancée, sitting at home waiting for him, wanting to plan their wedding together. Then he thinks of Sherlock, sitting at home waiting for him, heart cracked open and vulnerable, admitting to feelings he never thought he’d have.

John knows what he should do, just as he knows what he _must_ do.

Wiping the wetness from his phone he jams it into his pocket and heads off to buy some milk.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock can hardly believe he’d hit send. All of a sudden he’d been pouring his heart out in a message, all of the words he’d been bottling up had sprung free, but he’d never meant to actually send it. Now he’ll lose John for certain: he’ll go back to Mary and tell her he won’t be seeing Sherlock any more, because Sherlock has these pathetic unrequited feelings for him, so they can no longer be friends. Mary will be pleased. He pushes his hands into his hair, tugging at the curls in frustration. Should he call him? Should he run? Should he lock himself in his bedroom and not come out for a year?

‘ _Aaa_ _a_ _r_ _r_ _g_ _g_ _h_ _h!_ ’ Sherlock yells in his usual dramatically loud fashion, smacking his head repeatedly into his hands.

He _can’t_ call, he wouldn’t have the first idea what to say, and he most assuredly doesn’t want to hear John’s voice when he tells him to go to hell. Disappearing is a valid option – he looks longingly at his coat – but if he leaves he may end up somewhere he vowed to himself he would never return to again. Five years clean and counting.

There’s really only one option: he needs to stay here and face whatever is coming to him. An angry confrontation may be better than John never speaking to him again (which is exactly what he deserves; his own experiences have taught him that outing someone’s sexuality is generally considered a bit not good).

He picks up the champagne glass on the desk that he never took a drink out of before, downing the contents in one gulp. He cringes; it truly is vile, but being drunk sounds like a brilliant plan right now. He refills the glass with the remnants of the bottle and drains that too. Alcohol never really has agreed with him. He considers going back to Mrs. Hudson for some company, but he knows she will read him and convince him to _talk._ He shudders. No, he needs to sort the thoughts out in his own head before he can even contemplate talking it through with anyone else.

Shuffling dejectedly into the kitchen he decides to make tea, partly because he finds the process relaxing and partly because it will remove the awful taste of that champagne (Mrs Hudson purchased it – she has no idea about quality). When he goes to the fridge for milk he remembers they are out, and that he’d asked John to pick some up, and that memory is the straw that broke the camel’s back. His eyes sting and burn as if they are filled with hot sand and the only way to flush them out is to let the tears flow. Resting his head against the door of the fridge, Sherlock sobs. Years of pent up emotion coming to the forefront: all of the tears he hasn’t allowed himself to cry since he was a child. He cries for Redbeard and for everything he could never say to John. He cries the way he wanted to when he stood on the edge of a building and held out his arms, and he cries the tears of pain he refused to shed in Serbia. But mostly he sobs and bawls for coming home to find he had lost John all over again, and for pushing him further away in a moment of extraordinary weakness.

He’s so caught up in the outpouring of his own emotions, he fails to hear the footsteps approaching the flat until a voice speaks behind him, just as the kettle finishes boiling.

‘Perfect timing, I see.’

Sherlock jumps, banging his head against the refrigerator door, knocking to the floor a bundle of takeaway menus and the magnet that had secured them. He spins round, hair a riot of knotted curls sticking up at all angles, his eyes red and swollen, mucus still running from his nose. He’s never felt more self-conscious in his life, and he hurriedly wipes his nose on his sleeve, unable to speak.

John is standing there, between the lounge and the kitchen, holding up a litre of milk like a peace offering. He doesn’t say any more, simply takes the milk over to the kettle and sets about preparing two cups of tea, giving Sherlock the privacy to pull himself together. The younger man takes the opportunity to go into the bathroom and splash cold water on his face. Steeling himself for the conversation, for the inevitability of John’s rejection.

When he comes back through the kitchen John is sitting at the dining table with the two cups of tea. Sherlock flicks his gaze back and forth across him, taking in the dampness in his hair and the chill which is clearly evident on his face.

‘You’ve been outside for the last three hours.’ He states.

‘Yeah – I… needed to think.’

‘You couldn’t go… home?’ He grimaces with distaste as he says the word. He will never accept that anywhere else is John’s home, despite where he might currently be living.

John tilts his head slightly to the side and frowns at Sherlock in that way he does when he’s failing to grasp a social norm. Sherlock looks down, suitably chastised as he realises John returning to Mary to think about having kissed Sherlock would probably cross a line of what is morally acceptable.

‘You were thinking for a long time. Did you come to any conclusions?’

‘I did. And I should probably be speaking to Mary first, but quite frankly I’m a coward’, he holds his hand up to stop Sherlock’s attempt to interrupt, ‘No, I am. When it comes to telling my fiancée that I just kissed my best friend, I’m a coward. So, I’m here.’

Sherlock bites at his bottom lip, his nervousness clear in his aqua-green eyes. He dares not ask for fear he won’t receive the answer he so desperately craves.

‘Sherlock, I love you. I always have, if I’m honest. And regardless of what this means for us, I know I can’t marry Mary when I feel this way about you. It wouldn’t be fair on any of us.’

Sherlock can scarcely breathe, this moment feels too good to be true. The brightness is returning to his eyes and a smile is starting to form on his lips.

‘Are you…?’

John instinctively knows what he’s trying to ask. ‘I don’t want you, or Mary, to think I’m leaving her for you. I’m calling off the wedding because I love someone else more than I love my fiancée. I’ve never loved her as much as I loved you, and that wasn’t a problem while you were… gone, but now you’re here and you’ve forced me to face the harsh reality of my feelings for you. If I marry Mary now, I’ll never be happy. How can I spend time on cases with my best friend when I know I love him more than my wife?’

‘But… you said you’re _not_ leaving her for me.’ Sherlock states, confusion etched on his features.

John sighs. How can his friend understand so much about the motivation behind a crime, but be completely clueless when it comes to the feelings of his friends? ‘No, I’m not. I’m leaving Mary. I’m going to talk to her tonight, pack up my stuff, and go to a hotel for a few days.’

‘Come here, John. This is your _home!’_

‘I know, Sherlock, and I appreciate that I could just come back here, but when I do, I don’t want to be moving back as just your flatmate...’ He pauses to let that sink in. ‘… and I can’t simply jump from one relationship to another.’

‘You used to’, Sherlock huffs.

‘Oi!’ John feigns hurt. ‘I guess that’s fair. But these relationships are far more important than my endless parade of women. _You_ are more important than that, understand? I need to do this right.’

‘The two things need to be separate: your break-up, and our – whatever this might be.’ Sherlock begins to understand what John is trying to say. He’s been unnaturally slow this evening. Emotions really do slow down his mind to the speed of the general population, though for once he realises he doesn’t mind.

‘Exactly.’

‘Could you stay here tonight?’ He whispers.

‘No, Sherlock. I can’t put this off. I need to talk to Mary and then I’ll check into a hotel. That’s non-negotiable. Please understand.’

‘Should I… come with you? To talk to Mary, I mean.’ The expression on Sherlock’s face says he would rather be anywhere but with Mary.

‘Sherlock.’ John groans, but there’s affection lacing his words as he realises the reason Sherlock is so adamant. ‘I’m not going to change my mind, okay? It’s safe to let me out of your sight, I promise.’

Sherlock averts his eyes, the colour flooding to his cheeks, embarrassed to have been found out. ‘I worry that this isn’t real. That you’ll go and then I’ll wake up.’

‘Oh, Sherlock.’ John pulls him into a hug, placing a delicate kiss on his forehead. Sherlock pouts, attempting to be offended at John’s pitying gesture, but is truthfully revelling in the contact.

‘I’m not going back to her. Even if we weren’t going to try – this – I’d still be leaving Mary tonight. My heart isn’t there any more. Okay?’

Sherlock nods against John’s chest, before pulling back and pecking John briefly on the lips.

‘Let me go now. Let’s spend a few weeks -’

‘ _Weeks?!’_

‘- days, living apart, and see where we go from there. We can still talk, still go on cases, still go for dinner. Like dating.’

Sherlock frowns at the juvenile idea of “dating”, but secretly knows he’ll be happy to go along with it because it’s John.

‘I’ll probably need to quit the surgery’, John says, almost to himself. ‘It’s gonna be awkward as arse working with Mary after this.’

‘Good. We don’t need the money, and you know we have a joint account for client payments that you can help yourself to.’

This is an argument they’ve had many times before, in the months before Sherlock jumped: John stating that the money belonged to Sherlock, and Sherlock countering that John’s blog had brought in many of their paying customers. John had acquiesced somewhat, but had balked at the idea of sharing the large payment given to them by Sebastian Wilkes, a friend of Sherlock’s from university, not a client from the blog. Considering the way the case ended, Sherlock had told John he could consider it a payment for damages. John laughed when his friend asked if he should pay something to Sarah, too.

‘We can talk about all this when I move back in. For now, let me pay my own way. I have money I was putting aside for the wedding.’

‘You should get a refund on the ring, too.’

‘I think letting Mary keep that is the least I could do.’

John puts his coat back on and checks he has his phone, wallet, and keys, before he turns back to find Sherlock completely curled up in his chair.

‘I’ll text you when I’m settled, okay?’

Sherlock pouts but doesn’t speak.

‘Okay?’ John tries again.

‘Okay’, Sherlock mumbles like a petulant child. He closes his eyes, afraid to watch John walk away once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Two hours have passed without a word from John, and Sherlock is smoking. He rescued an old cigarette from a long abandoned box behind a loose tile in the kitchen, and is currently pacing the floor of the living room, paying no mind to the ash falling on the floor.

How long can it possibly take to call off an engagement?

Factoring in the time it would have taken John to get back to Northwood, the inevitable crying (he rolls his eyes at the thought) and then a cab back into the city to a hotel (not too central, John wouldn’t spend more than he had to), Sherlock concludes that he shouldn’t start worrying for another thirty-to-forty minutes. This knowledge calms him down a little and he flops onto the sofa, grinding the cigarette out on the table. Must remember to clean that up before John comes home.

For a man that can lie on the sofa for hours at a time, he’s doing a spectacularly bad job of it today, lasting only three minutes before bouncing back up, a bundle of nervous energy in perpetual motion.

The violin should help take his mind off the interminable waiting. If he hasn’t heard anything in an hour, he’ll go round there and drag John out himself.

He takes his violin out of it’s case, lovingly tuning it – the very act slowing down his incessant thoughts. Flicking through his sheet music he finds a composition he had been working on in his mind palace whilst he was away. He’d begun to write it down at the earliest opportunity after he’s returned to Baker Street. It was for John, of course; a subtle way to show him his feelings without ever having to come out and say it. Or kiss him. Redundant now, he supposes, but he’d still like to play it for John one day. Now things are different it may be time to add a new verse to the arrangement, something more… hopeful. Joyful, even, and less, for want of a better word – pining.

A few hasty scribbles on the manuscript paper and he has an idea where to start. Lifting the violin to his chin, he begins to play.

**

It’s two a.m. when John Watson pushes through the door to his room at the Premier Inn at Wembley Park, a small suitcase, a rucksack, and a cardboard box weighing him down and causing him to trip over his own feet, almost upending the contents of the box on the floor.

It had taken four hours to end things with Mary and get his belongings packed up. He knew Sherlock would be going out of his mind with anxiety by now, but as soon as he got in the cab, John realised his phone was dead.

Mary had taken the news badly, as expected. There had been tears, from both of them, and a lot of angry shouting from Mary. Each time John thought she had calmed down sufficiently, she would start crying again. He felt awful, he really did. He loved her, and he knows he’s hurt her so much, not just in calling off the engagement and ending the relationship, but to do it because he loves someone else. John had explained the situation repeatedly, just as he had with Sherlock, explained that he wasn’t leaving her for him, just that he was leaving because he had realised to whom his heart really belonged, and to marry her with that knowledge, well, that was just wrong. This seemed to soothe Mary somewhat, and when she had got herself together she admitted that she’d always known how he felt about his best friend, and that it was okay when they thought Sherlock was dead. But the way John looked at Sherlock when he returned, and the fact that he never finished his proposal, gave her cause to believe he might leave.

Seems everyone knew but him, he thinks as he puts the box on the desk in the simple room, rummaging in his rucksack until he finds his charger. Plugging his phone in he’s surprised to find there’s only one message from Sherlock, which came in around an hour ago.

[Received 01:12]

_Where are you? Are you safe?_

He should call, he knows he should, but he’s exhausted and too emotionally drained to go through the events of the evening again. He types out a quick response instead.

[Sent 02:16]

_I’m so sorry, it took much longer than expected. I’m at the hotel now: room service then sleep. You should get some, too. Speak to you tomorrow._

[Sent 02:16]

_I love you._

Putting the phone on the desk he picks up the landline and calls for room service, ordering a burger and a beer, then heads for a quick shower while he waits. Knowing the staff are likely to arrive whilst he’s still under the water spray, John ensures he’s out in less than fifteen minutes – just in time to hear the knock at the door and the sound of the plate on the metal service tray.

Tying his dressing gown tight around his otherwise naked body, he opens the door -

\- to find his dinner being presented to him by a tall, curly-haired chap, in a very recognisable coat.

‘Sherlock?! What the – How did you find me? Did you track… You _can’t_ have, it was dead!’ He’s aware he isn’t making a lot of sense, but it wouldn’t be the first time that Sherlock’s brilliance has left him tongue-tied.

‘I forced Mycroft to wait for it to turn back on and give me an exact location… He may have also followed the cab on his cameras when you left Mary’s.’ He looks smug for a moment before realising John may consider this an invasion of privacy, and a refusal to listen to John’s feelings. ‘You were gone too long’, he says, by way of explanation.

John takes the tray from Sherlock, leaving him waiting awkwardly in the doorway whilst he puts the plate on the small table.

‘I’m sorry I worried you. But, Sherlock, I still stand by what I said. I’m staying here for a few days.’

‘Then so am I’, Sherlock announces, moving further into the room. ‘You never said we couldn’t be together, simply that you wouldn’t move back in yet. Ergo, I came to you.’

They stand there facing each other for a long moment; Sherlock’s expression a hopeful one, whereas John is thinking back over everything he said earlier, and struggling not to smile when he realises Sherlock is right.

Losing the battle, he breaks out in a grin and starts to giggle, ‘You mad bastard.’

He pulls Sherlock into the room, pressing his compact body against his boyfriend’s taller frame as he stretches up to join their lips together. As their lips meet John realises it’s not specifically 221B that he considers home; it’s Sherlock. Wherever he is, as long as they’re together, he’s home.

He pulls back, smiling against those full lips, ‘Come on. Dinner’s getting cold.’

And with a grin, Sherlock moves further into the room, kicking the door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


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